This is based on the light novels as much as it is the anime. You should be fine if you haven't read the books (which you probably haven't given how damn difficult it can be to find even incomplete translations) – I'll just be referring to an element or two that you might not recognize from the anime.The only one you really need to know to "get" this fic is the fact that the books elaborated on the "no false names" rule (it's basically my fridge logic of "how does Firo buy alcohol post-prohibition when he looks barely legal and can't use fake IDs?")– hence the quote at the beginning of the story.

Also, Firo's birthdate is an educated guess on my part (Detective Edward Noah said he was about eighteen and a half in the first book, which takes place in November of 1930) rather than anything official.

Those who have drunk this elixir will lose the ability to use 'false names'. It will be a mental constraint... If it's just giving a temporary introduction to ordinary people, then there is no problem. But you will use your real name when conversing with fellow immortals, and your body will reject establishing a false identity in this world. The Demon of the Advena Avis, The Rolling Bootlegs

"Miss, could I please get two margaritas on the rocks?"

The order was given in a heavy New Yorker accent by a man in glasses and a suit. He was sitting at a table with a redheaded woman. He appeared to be quite young. Too young, in fact, to be ordering margaritas.

"Yes, sir, but first I'm going to have to ask to see your ID."

The man (or should she say "boy"? It was doubtful that he was over eighteen, after all) gave a polite, if embarrassed, smile as he began to take out his wallet. When the waitress received the card, she examined it thoroughly.

It was a New York driver's license, confirming the waitress's guess that this boy wasn't from around town. It listed his name as Firo Prochainezo, and the photo on it certainly looked like him. All in all, it looked like an entirely legitimate ID save for a small but damning piece of information

DOB: 05-11-1912

The waitress took another look at the young man in front of her, most certainly closer to fifteen years than a hundred, and rolled her eyes. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to see some real ID"

Firo's eyebrow rose a little. "That ID is real, miss. I just had it renewed two months ago – hell of a process, I might add. Now if you could please get me and my wife our margaritas..."

Wife? The waitress looked at the woman beside him – Maybe a couple of years older than the boy, but still probably under twenty-one. She was wearing a rather expensive-looking dress. These kids were certainly taking this ruse pretty far. The waitress refused to go along with it, however. She hated being played for a fool.

"Look, kid. This is a pretty well-made fake you've got here, but next time you'll probably want to pick a more reasonable date-of-birth. I suggest 1988." She tossed the card on the table in front of him and pointed at the red letters with her thumb. The boy caught her drift immediately. Rather than give up on this, however, he gave an almost amused sigh and took his glasses off. Here we go again, his brown eyes seemed to say.

The girl also sighed, only in a much more exasperated tone. She began cradling her head in her hand.

"Miss, I would if I could, but nobody can change the year they were born in.

"Uh huh. So I'm supposed to believe that you're ninety eight years old?"

"You don't have to believe anything you don't want to, but it is the truth. I can't lie about my age in front of my wife, after all."

Okay, there was no arguing with these two. "Look, call me back when you're ready to order something besides booze, alright? Because I'm not giving alcohol to a couple of kids," the waitress said before trying to make her leave. She went two steps before someone grabbed the back of her waistcoat. It was the girl, the alleged wife.

"Look, maybe if we prove it to you, okay?" The girl looked from the waitress to Firo, who gave a nod, before making eye contact again. Unlike the boy, her expression seemed honest and pleading. The waitress gave a sigh and caved in.

"Fine, but I don't see how you can—Oh my God!"

She had only looked away from Firo for a second, but that was apparently all he needed to grab one of the dining knives and drill it into the back of his hand. It looked like he had hit a vein, as dark blood began to gush out once he pulled out the knife. The waitress tried to run – for napkins, for a doctor, for a shrink, anything – but the girl had grabbed her by the wrist. What the fuck is wrong with you? the waitress mouthed. The girl replied simply by pointing back to her alleged husband's wound.

It wasn't bleeding anymore.

...Actually, that wasn't quite right. The boy's wound was still bleeding, but in reverse. Blood trickled back into a wound like a video played in reverse. Afterward, the gash began to stitch itself up. Within seconds, there wasn't even a wound at all. With the scene over, the waitress could only stare dumbly. Finally, adding up the evidence, she spoke.


Firo's face lit up at the question. "Yep! 'S been awhile since somebody's guessed correctly on the first try. Usually they think vampires for some reason. Now about those margaritas..."

A number of hours later, Firo and Ennis walked out of the restaurant.

"Sorry about making you do that," Ennis said when she was sure no one else was within earshot. She looked away from Firo like she was expecting a scolding.

"Huh? Oh, the knife thing." Firo ran his thumb over the now nonexistent wound and smirked. "Ah, don't worry 'bout it. That li'l party trick never gets old. Besides, now I get to be the guy who loves his wife so much he'd stab himself just to get her a margarita. Let's see Claire top that."

Ennis giggled a bit. "Still, I hope we didn't scare that poor girl too much. I can't imagine she sees many customers do that."

"She'll be fine. I left her a little something to make up for it..."

At about the same time as the couple's exit, one waitress began cleaning up the table of what had to be the weirdest customers she has ever served (although they were quite nice. Once she apologized for the...misunderstanding, they didn't seem to hold her initial rudeness against her in the least). As she was stacking glasses, a shimmer caught in the corner of her eye.

It was a note held down by a large gold coin. She read it.

Sorry about that little surprise we sprung on you. Still, you handled yourself better than a lot of people have under the circumstances (there was this one time some guy tried to exorcise me on the spot. If I'm ever in town again I'll come by and tell you about it), so consider this a token of my appreciation.

There was an arrow drawn on the note, pointing to where the coin was before the waitress picked it up.

An old friend of mine came back with quite a few of these after something he liked to call his "pirate adventure" a few years back. I think it's a Spanish dubloon. Seems like a fun souvenir to go with your first encounter with an immortal conta è oro, so here you go.


The waitress tested the weight of the coin in her hand. It was quite heavy, like a nearly pure gold pirate coin ought to be. She didn't know coin values very well, but she figured it was safe to assume that it was quite a bit more than the customary 15% tip she usually failed to recieve. She smiled and slipped the coin into one of her pockets as she walked off to the kitchen.

It's probably for the best that she never realized that conta è oro is a Camorra term.